


Vessel

by ForeignTongues



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur - Freeform, Caring Arthur, Gen, Graphic descriptions and gore, Guinevere (mentioned) - Freeform, Inception - Freeform, Merlin - Freeform, Self destruction, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, gaius - Freeform, poetic prose, suicidal, suicidal Merlin, trigger warning: suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 08:16:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11157882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeignTongues/pseuds/ForeignTongues
Summary: Merlin has comitted the unforgivable, and is there to witness the effect on those he loves.He was hoping he wouldn't be alive for that bit.He never had control of his life, did he?





	Vessel

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER:  
> Do not read if you are easily triggered by writing having to do with with suicide, gore, or heavy intensity.

"Are you keeping up?"

The world was one vivid wave.

A grand illusion, granted delusion, trifled with philosophies.

His dark head of hair rested against the trunk of a smooth-limbed Magnolia. The thickness of his hair cushioned the already suple bark. 

Then there was that wind, that warm wind that rises just before a storm arrives. The sky darkens, brooding at the earth, and blankets the atmosphere with a warmth that is beyond magic. 

He could feel it chase the exposed skin of his neck, looping underneath his neckerchief and licking playfully at his hair. 

His suede jacket and cornflower blue, linen tunic smothered his skin with a light pressure that almost could lull him into sleep if it weren't for his racing thoughts. 

His trousers protected him from the ground beneath, adding a little support from the jutting tree roots which he did his best to curve into. 

And his boots; they clung to his ankles and squeezed his toes in reassurance. 

He felt the atmosphere alleviate some of the pressure and grow stronger in wind, trading one for another. 

The petrichor. His nails in the dirt, fingering the modules of grain between the rivulets of lines on his fingers. 

This was serenity. Eyes closed, allowing blossoming purples and greens to dance in pattern against the darkness. 

There was no bird song; all had hidden away so as to miss the downpour, as did the other forest creatures. All was silent except for the hollow call of wind in the canals of his ears. 

He breathed in. Sucked in the smell of storm. Breathed out. 

And nothing changed. 

In the calmest crook of the earth, there was nothing worth hoping for. 

Nothing worth breathing for. 

If the soil hummed in gossamer light of the Old Religion, it dared not share its life with any of the sapient beings it held afoot. Every vibration, every tremor of life kept to itself and selfishly grasped its magic. 

Merlin's eyes flew open. 

Contracted. Settled on the dense forest and the grass that rose higher than his bent knees. 

And it was eerie. 

He was afraid of himself, afraid that irrational actions seemed perfectly normal solutions. 

He craved them. 

"No, stop," he spoke resolutely. He felt like a madman. 

Merlin gripped at his jacket, telling himself to focus on the feel of the fabric, to study it. 

There wasn't a selfish bone in his body. This wasn't selfishness. 

He would return to the citadel in an hour. He would stand now, demand his legs to stand, and retreat back to his quarters. He would return to his daily motions of living. 

And every time he feebly pushed against the earth to raise himself, he failed. 

He wasn't sure if he was truly weak in his muscles or if it was pure lack of will. 

Merlin rolled his eyes at the puny effort of another attempt to stand. 

If only his body would cooperate with what his mind persisted. 

He decided, as his limbs shook until he had fully risen and locked his knees and leg muscles, that perhaps the disconnect between the body and the mind was as much of a hindrance as it was a precaution.

They'd be wondering where Merlin was by now. 

Merlin set aside the thought. He didn't want to care about their worry for him. It resembled something of pity, and made him regret not trying harder to be presentable and cheery. 

But then again, they were the ones who chose to love him. They could stop at anytime they wanted. Perhaps it would make Merlin's life easier if there was unrequited bond. 

He trudged along. Once Merlin got into the pattern of walking, it was phantom motions that bore light as feathers. So, he picked up the pace unwittingly. 

He would return to Camelot. Of course Merlin would. He'd done so every single time he came to collapse in the woods, thinking maybe this was the time, he could finally go through with it. But he always found enough strength to make the trip home. 

That was maddening. 

Even when he regretted it, his body carried him along and back to his duty.

On worse days, Merlin could feel Kilgharrah's presence draw near. 

He thought once that he had seen the dragon fly above him and escape view behind the clouds. 

Merlin always felt annoyed by his concern, but secretly, appreciative of his presence along with Merlin. Kilgharrah's Magic was not selfish. It sought to better. 

"Come on now, wake up for me. I suppose it's a miracle for you to accomplish any of the favors I usually ask and indeed pay you for, but truly, Merlin, give me this one." 

Merlin shook his head and grimaced. He blinked wearily around the path to the citadel, and noticed nothing estranged. He was hearing things now. That was brilliant. Talking to oneself and hearing things and suicidal thoughts. 

He wondered if he should fully explain everything that had been going on to Gaius; he didn't feel as if he could handle this on his own anymore. 

But then, Merlin told himself he was being paranoid. It was nothing. Men used the thought of suicide to make it through the night. It was a comfort, to know they always had the choice if all else betrayed. 

"That was a bad one, yes. It's impossible to banter with a stone wall." 

Merlin stood still and closed his eyes. Was this some sort of odd trick of the Old Religion? He could faintly hear the echoes... 

"I've been told to keep talking to you in case you can still hear despite this. Can you believe, explicit permission to ridicule you when you can't retaliate? Quite a blessing. For once you have to listen to me." 

Merlin rubbed his face with his palms. It was his imagination, because what else could it be? He batted away the voice and continued his trek. He was in the open field now, amongst the golden grains and the sight of the castle walls hovering over the peaks of the trees. 

It was with relief that he noticed the voice had stopped plaguing him while he began the path along the dirt road. There were tracks of horse hoofs in the mud that held water securely in their shape. 

Merlin took each step with trepidation. He wasn't fond of the idea of cleaning mud-caked shoes before he went to bed. 

A discomfort started climbing to his shoulder, causing an involuntary shiver that Merlin shook off, feeling quite perturbed overall. He kept his view on the hazardous pit of the road, continuing to take steady and purposeful steps. 

When the worst patches had passed, Merlin took the time to look at his en route destination.

Merlin's eyes widened and his hands fisted. The fear set in before he recognized what he was seeing. 

It was Camelot, but it was quiet. 

There were no bustling villagers, no haggard merchants with their barters, no animals tied to the rest poles and no clamor of city life. 

There was no one.

His heart racing without thinking, Merlin stormed and ran on aching legs at a pace impossible without the push of adrenaline and instinct. 

In the back of his mind, he registered the worries that the same sleeping spell had overtaken Camelot once again, that Morgana had plotted a true and powerful spell that would captivate the consciousness of the Camelotians. 

It added another spring to his bouncing equilibrium on the giving dirt. 

When he came to the major market section of the city, an even wearier sensation took hold of Merlin; no people were lying on the ground fast asleep. 

He slammed open doors of the peasant folk, the doors of those he was well acquainted with, calling out the names of his fellow men and women, but no one was there. 

Everything was starting to haze, Merlin couldn't think, couldn't understand; he was gasping for breath as he frantically searched the stables and the streets. 

Eventually he doubled over, his body giving under the lack of oxygen, the panic doing nothing to help Merlin recollect his breath. His eyes were wild, his limbs quaking; he'd only been gone for a few hours! How could this possibly have happened? What had happened?! 

That's when the voice returned. 

"God, no- Merlin! You have to keep on, please, I command you! Listen to me!"

"Merlin!"

A thunderous clap of recognition made his ears fall silent to the sounds of the phantom city. The sound of silence blaring in his ears, ringing to no end. 

Arthur.

He's in trouble. 

Sparks danced in front of his eyes and his arms vibrated as Merlin ran into the castle, choking down breaths as he pulled around the corners of the hallways and fled to Arthur's chambers, the council room, the armory, the library, the kitchens, the guest rooms, Gaius' quarters. 

His heart failed a little when he found Gaius to be as ghostly as the rest of Camelot. 

It was as if he could hear them whispering- talking?- and moving around him in no haste, mirages and shadows that passed beside and through Merlin.

He tried to grasp at them, to make out their words, but all that he knew was chaos and fear and the sound of his heart pulsing in his ears.   
Swinging around in an attempt to catch the whisperings, Merlin decidedly gave up on the unresponsive ghosts. 

He continued searching the castle, every inch of ivory blurring together until he found himself stomping up the stairs, his boots clattering and echoing down, down. 

"Merlin, please. You have to fight. You can't do this, not now, not ever. Never like this."

Merlin was sobbing with penultimate terror and helplessness as he stood at the height of the tower, looking across the expansion of the dead Camelot. 

He covered his ears and tried to listen to Arthur's voice, he didn't understand, he didn't know how to help, Arthur was dying somewhere and he was worthless, he couldn't save him-

Merlin couldn't breathe. He was choking on his sobs, gasping out, crying freely and loudly and everywhere he turned it was pain and loneliness and he couldn't save them, he didn't know how, he couldn't breathe. 

His throat began to close around itself as if it were trying to drag something down into his stomach, but it was drowning him, and he was gagging and spinning and the world was spinning purple blue green white- 

Merlin lost his footing, knees buckling, his spine craning towards the earth. 

But there was no wall behind him. 

He slid slackly over the lower wall of the castle's edge.

His stomach was in his lungs, his heart had stopped, and he was free-falling in the air and it rushed in a oil painting of dripping colors and so much terror. 

And just before he hit the steeple of the lower tower,

Merlin remembered. 

He had thrown himself off. 

He had finally done it. 

He actually tried to end his life. 

And in the developing blackness of this illusion, this dream; before hitting stone, Merlin laughed. 

 

...

 

"Merlin!"

They were still calling his name, then. 

Merlin startled when he realized he was conscious and alive, his body reacting and his skin jumping.

And when his body jostled, it was excruciating pain.

He felt the pulsing waves of fire and scratching radiating from his sternum and his legs, not shying away from the rest of his body. The tendrils of pain caressed each and every inch of him. Merlin would've cried if he had the strength. 

"Do you hear me? Open your eyes Merlin, come on now..."

The echoing voices were keen and clear, but still bubbled in and out of ear shot. 

"... breathing again, albeit not..." 

"-aius, oh god, I thought he was..."

"... out of the woods yet..."

"-ep talking Arthur..."

Oh.

Oh. 

 

Merlin wasn't dying; he was injured, but no longer dying. 

Merlin's heart picked up pace and a sudden cold sweat filtered him; he sucked in a deeper breath only to have it catch in his throat from the pain it caused his ribs. 

"It's okay Merlin, we are here; take it easy..."

Merlin wished he had enough control over his body to punch at the voice of Arthur which hovered directly above him, but every movement furthered his agony. 

"Open your eyes Merlin."

Arthur was calm and soothing to hear, and Merlin wanted to comply, but he just couldn't do this for him. 

It was a favor Arthur shouldn't ask of him. It was asking more than consciousness. It was asking to return. Beckoning Merlin to continue suffering. 

So, when Merlin cracked open his eyes, it was for himself. 

Not for Arthur. 

Because Merlin still had his choice. A different plan, a different time, but the choice was his. They couldn't stop him. 

A nagging thought touched him, and perhaps it wasthe darkness of sleep retracting from his surviving brain, teasing him: but they did stop you. 

Along with his sight, his other senses began to come alive as well. 

He couldn't make out the shapes before him quite yet, but he could see red, and smell his blood, taste the iron, feel the pool of it under and around him. It stuck to him, drenched his clothes, and made the linen scratch painfully. 

And now that he mentioned it, the pain was skyrocketing.

"No," Merlin groaned at the blurring faces floating before him like a spinning color wheel. 

"Merlin, focus," Arthur commanded. The king's voice quivered.

Merlin took another few breaths that didn't totally fill his needs, then stated, "I didn't know you cared."

It was strained and cracked, but whether it was banter or truth, Merlin couldn't decipher. Probably a bit of both, he thought bitterly. 

Finally, the two sections of Arthur joined together to form an aged face, frown lines building and eyes questioning. 

Merlin felt a little spark of amusement that he could make that look come to life on Arthur's face. It felt good to let others suffer the way he was suffering, for them to understand his pain. 

A sharp stab of angry red and white heat clenched for Merlin's heart.

He gasped, reaching for his shirt and beginning to tear and grope at it. 

"Hey, it's okay," Arthur whispered, "It'll pass."

"I didn't know you had a motherly side either; I guess I really am dying," Merlin half cried as the stabbing palpitated across each vein. 

He was quaking and spasming, and clutching wherever he could, his shirt, Arthur's hands, Arthur's jacket, and Arthur did his best to steady Merlin's rigid limbs with close pressure on Merlin's shoulders. 

"Don't say that," Arthur breathed through a morose grimace.

Merlin felt childish being held and soothed, tears streaming off of him. 

He shut his eyes against them, the tears, the world. He prayed that maybe there was time to die.

"We have to move you," Gaius said regretfully. "I've done what I can here, but we need to get you into our chambers and clean out the wounds. You understand."

And Merlin did. He knew the process. 

It hadn't really occurred to him until now that they were, in fact, in the middle of the square. Merlin let his head loll on his right cheek to see a crowd of people gathering, and his stomach dropped to see so many who he knew, knowing what Merlin had done. Well. Attempted to do. 

He heard the echoing footsteps of the villagers with his ear pressed to the shaped stone of the city, and let himself relax. He wanted to let go, but he didn't have a hold of anything. He was left to the mercy of those who cared for him. It wasn't mercy though; it was control. 

Letting Merlin slip into a coma and pass in his unconscious state would have been mercy. 

With as much strength as he could muster in such a weakened and humbling state, Merlin growled out, "Piss off."

He guessed this must have startled Gaius and Arthur, as the air somehow stilled and grew heavy. 

But why would it? They knew this was... what Merlin wanted, right? That he had thrown himself off of that wall? 

He wasn't able to ask. As soon as this question of intent came to mind, he was swallowed back into unconsciousness. 

...

He dreamed. Of course Merlin did. But every dream allowed Arthur's words and Gaius' healing and Gwen's caress to seep in, as it had when he had been dying. 

Had been dying.

The thought angered him. 

Why couldn't they have let him rest? He was impossibly close to his reward. 

Snoring? ...He could hear snoring. 

Great, bloody wonderful, he was left to be watched by a grumbling pig. A pig named Arthur, at the sound of it. 

Merlin popped his eyes open. 

He was on the cot in Gaius' chambers, a table sat beside him that was full to the corners with medicines and wrappings. 

He stared at the ceiling for a second and tried to recollect himself. 

Merlin ached all over, but he could ascertain the major areas of concern. 

He sat up abruptly, rather regretting the decision when sparks flew and decorated the books lining the wooden staircase. But from this stance, Merlin saw the bandages covering his torso and his entire right leg, not to mention the numberless gashes and cuts that had been sewn together. 

He reached a hand up to his face and lightly brushed his fingers along the stitches over his cheekbone, his forehead. Pretty damaged, then. 

Turning to the snoring farm animal seated and slumping next to Merlin's cot, Merlin couldn't help the growing resentment at the prone form. 

Arthur looked weathered and harsh; he hadn't been shaving, or sleeping judging by his under eyes, and his casual clothing had miscellaneous specks of blood here and there that had been washed off but remained steadfast in stain. 

Arthur's face was slack, huddled on his shoulder, his posture slowly sinking into the crevice of the chair. 

Merlin envied him. He dug his nails into his palms and breathed hard until the fit of rage subsided. Anger was a distraction, like any other emotion. 

So he let himself glide off the side of the cot, gently testing his injured leg and moving so that his chest was not too affronted. His leg stung and his heart beat wildly inside the damaged sternum, but Merlin was able to hobble. 

He didn't waste any time by the mirror, though he still threw a glance at his reflection. 

He looked like a walking corpse. 

Merlin mused that that must have been the conclusion the guards met when he breached through the doorway. They put restraining hands in front of him, telling him that he had been ordered to rest, but he shoved them away with a simple, "The King said fresh air would be good for me."

It was a wonder they couldn't hear Arthur's monstrous snoring. 

For the first time, Merlin felt himself be very appreciative of the thick walls and clad-iron, wooden doors. 

He'd grown up being able to hear anything and everything through the thin oak wood his mother had lived in since before she became pregnant with Merlin. 

He ground his teeth at the passing thought of his mother. 

Feelings are a distraction, he chanted to himself. 

The trek down the stairs proved treacherous, but even so, Merlin made it to the front castle doors without too much delay. 

The town didn't seem too busy, more quiet than anything, and Merlin felt a spring of uncertainty when he noticed this, but no; he knew that he wasn't dreaming now. 

It took some angling, but Merlin climbed down to about the third marble row, and sat himself on the ledge of the stairs. 

No one seemed to look at him.   
Merlin was as invisible as ever. He wasn't complaining, really, but it did hurt knowing that people didn't care. Even though he would rather they didn't, so that he wouldn't feel burdened by guilt. 

It was bittersweet.

Merlin tried to let himself rest as he did in the forest- or, well, his dream of it. He had been many times to do the same thing, but it never scratched the surface of comfort outside the scenarios of his dream. 

There was movement in a different way; the sun was thirsty for anything and crashed down upon every inch of the castle it could, retrieving stream from off of the plants, the puddles on the ground, the perspiring of humans and animals alike. It was nice, but overbearing. Like a man with good intentions, but no tact. 

There was molding littered on various bricks of the walls, and their dampness from the rain added to their effect, darkening the edges of the grey-stained monuments. 

The sun bounced off of the otherwise unaffected marble, making the courtyard uncomfortably bright, but brilliantly clear. 

In the distance, Merlin could hear the babble of villagers and the clomping of hooves on the cobblestone. A few maidens and servants were passing through the open halls of the castle, and Merlin dared not look, in case they made eye contact and reflected what he was feeling with as much ferocity as the sun reflected on white.

Then there was the sky- not a cloud in it. The storm must have passed fairly quickly then, the clouds blown off to perturb another area.   
It was all too bright and all too lively for Merlin's current taste. 

He wondered if any of those people he saw following their duties even had a clue of what happened to him. 

It was for the best, he supposed. They were not as likely to take precautions with Merlin when they don't know he was volatile and detrimental. Not a threat to them; only himself. 

Merlin had done his best to keep off of the topic because if he sunk back into reality, he would panic. And he'd have no way of escaping. He was rendered useless. Sure, there were dozens of toxins in Gaius' chambers, but thrice the amount of antidotes to those specified toxins. 

There was the idea of Merlin struggling up into a higher tower and trying for a spare, but the guardsmen would find him if he took too long a time trudging through the corridors and up sets of stairs. 

He was currently too weak to wield any weapon against himself, and was a mile off from a river or well to drown himself in. 

So he sat helplessly. And he mourned. 

He mourned the loss of control he had over his fate. He'd mourned it since the reality of the prophesies found him and cultivated him against his will. 

Merlin didn't want to be this. He didn't want to suffer betrayal, fight, and loss anymore. It was different for a normal man.

When these things happened to Merlin, he knew they were coming to be, and he did everything imaginable under the sun to prevent them. 

And every single time, like clockwork, Merlin failed. 

That was an agony no soul on earth should have to endure. 

But he'd been chosen to do exactly that. To carry the weight of the world's survival on his shoulders, his back, crushing him further into the dirt until all of Merlin was gone. 

Until Merlin was a tool of fate without an independent mind or purpose. 

Passion burned in his chest, but watched, trapped, from inside his flesh to scream that this wasn't right, wasn't humane, it was killing him. 

No one noticed or cared whenever he told them that he needed help. 

The smallest of favors, like asking for company, advice, direction, all turned down in order for lesser things to take the forefront. 

Merlin had tried speaking to Gaius, but it was never enough, was it? Gaius didn't understand, and instead sat by docilely like drift wood being tugged at by the complaints of waves. 

He'd written his mother, but her hope was not enough to share. 

Gwen was preoccupied with her new duties, and Merlin felt it would be indecent to put this all upon her when she'd begun to have a taste of the weight Merlin bears. 

As for the knights, there wasn't a right time to even begin explaining. There wasn't a good way to blurt out that he was going through something and wasn't sure he'd see them on the other side. 

And then there was Arthur. 

The man was as intuitive as the soiled boots lying in a dusty corner of the armory. 

Merlin had to polish and work for ages before the boots held their effectiveness once more. 

There was no reprieve, no shred of hope, and Morgana's abuse beat into Merlin far deeper, knowing that he had spawned her downfall. He was forced to fail and forced to endure that failure no matter what. Merlin figured that his attempt had been bloody part of prophesy as well. 

No wonder Kilgharrah hadn't come. The dragon knew this was necessary and that Merlin would survive. 

Merlin's breathing became erratic and he stared unseeing into the courtyard with a fury the most noble knight would quail under. 

Why couldn't he just die. 

Surely he had that right. 

Out of all else taken away from him, dying was something the Old Religion shouldn't take. 

Merlin was planning and analyzing the stages of healing with his knowledge as a physician's apprentice, deducing when he'd have control over his body once more, when a hand squeezed his shoulder. 

Merlin yanked his head to the person in question, obviously flustered, as seen by the redness in his cheeks. 

And he was met with the trousers and boots of the king. 

They went along the steps and plopped down firmly to showcase a beaming Arthur. 

Merlin wanted to be sick. 

In fact, that was indeed a possibility. His skin started to shake slightly and vibrate, the bile in his stomach gurgled in displeasure. 

"I didn't know if I'd ever see you awake again," Arthur admitted with a breath. 

His face spoke relief and sorrow in the same space, and the mix threatened to make Merlin's head ache. Arthur openly emotional towards Merlin; Merlin wondered how long he had been asleep. 

"How are you feeling?" Arthur rushed out. He rested beside Merlin in a casual manner, limbs splayed on top of each other loosely. But his entire attention was on his friend. 

"Like I fell from a building," Merlin deadpanned. He wasn't in the mood to reciprocate any affection and doubted he would for a while. Arthur had betrayed him. 

"Funny," Arthur replied drily. "Wouldn't have guessed." 

"You did ask," Merlin stated. 

"Yeah," Arthur hummed in noncommittal noise. He was staring out at the courtyard. Merlin tried to follow his line of eye sight, and his stomach grew more impatient when he realized what Arthur must have been looking at. 

The wall Merlin had fallen, well, jumped from. It peaked over the bridge hovering the citadel. Merlin now stared in unison. The wall seemed to mock him. 

"What happened, Merlin," Arthur flatly inquired, eyes on the wall. "Because, we've all determined it had to be an accident. So, tell me. How did it happen."

A shot of panic went through Merlin. 

He knew whatever he said next would be either convince Arthur and allow Merlin more chance to try again later, or plain wouldn't. They would give him no chance to make a repeat exit. 

"I um," Merlin laughed without conviction, "had too much to drink. You know me and the Rising Sun. That place and I are great companions." 

When Merlin paused, trying to let the lie sink into Arthur, the man impatiently egged him on. 

"Yes?"

Merlin sighed in exasperation. 

"It's not that hard to figure out what happened next, Arthur," he deflected, shooting for a jibe to add normality to the story, "You know I was joking when I called you a clotpole, right?" 

He saw Arthur's lips quirk up.

"I'd put you in the stocks for that if you weren't broken all over," Arthur clipped back, enjoying the little warmth of the banter. "And I still might if you don't finish this damned story." 

Merlin smirked hollowly. "Well then," he continued, "I was taking a stroll in the castle, and chanced upon taking the path that lead to the wall." 

"A stroll? Really?"

"Yes, do keep up Sire."

"Shut up. No man goes on a "stroll." That's a pastime of maidens." 

"I was drunk, remember me saying? Drunk enough to fall off of a wall." 

A sigh.

"Now if you'll let me finish," Merlin nagged, "I will explain to you that I was admiring the city from the view off the height, and lost bodily function while I was leaning against the side of an opening. And I fell."

Arthur sobered for a minute, and Merlin prayed to the triple goddess, who he hated with all of his being, that Arthur would just take him at his word. 

The pause was pregnant, but eventually, Arthur nodded and looked at Merlin. 

"That makes sense."

"Good job discerning."

"But see," Arthur reversed, becoming sardonic, "a guard told me he'd seen you before it happened. He didn't say anything about you acting drunken."

"How do you think I've continued with my duties as your servant? I'm a wonderful actor," Merlin streamed, holding onto any shred of integrity and grit he had in order to pass this lie off as truth. 

"Merlin," Arthur's tone dropped. 

"Yes, Sire?"

"He saw you jump."

Suddenly the world was spinning and tipping as Merlin stared back at Arthur, his jaw going slack from excuses and lies he couldn't voice to cover the truth. He was shaking and his heart racing, he was grabbing at his bandages on his leg and fiddling with them, searching for any distraction. 

After a moment, Merlin resigned to the fact that was was speechless. He had nothing to say. There was nothing to make this easier. 

He looked at Arthur once more and realized, with panic clawing up his throat, that Arthur was surprised. His eyes were plastered open in unblinking shock. It was to the point of being comical. Arthur's mouth had also fallen open to speak silent words. 

Then the words punctured loud and clear. 

"I don't-" Arthur shook his head, "I didn't really believe, but I had to make sure-"

"What?" Merlin muttered. He couldn't manage anything louder. 

"There was no guard Merlin."

Oh god. 

"No one saw, um..."

Merlin hated crying.

But sometimes it couldn't be helped.

That's why he sat, unmoving, and let himself drench his shirt, let snot seep down, hiccuping as he struggled to keep his sobs in. 

This was not what he had planned.

He'd planned to be dead, not to deal with the aftermath of his self-destruction as it hurt others. 

Why did they have to care?

Their care gave him this guilt, made him feel like what he tried was wrong, that it was selfish, but it wasn't, Merlin being used and abused and tormented but dragged through the currents to an extent he could barely recover from was selfish, the world was asking too much and he couldn't help but deliver but his soul, his soul was the part that couldn't go on, he wasn't an empty vessel for the Old Religion, he was a vessel with his own soul being invaded by the will of another, and-

He couldn't do this.

He wouldn't. 

 

Merlin didn't care that there was no way out. He shot up and was running away from Arthur, never mind his injuries, never mind how he cried out every other step, the adrenaline would let him do this, his magic would let him, he would get away. 

The wind resisted him as he flew past, not paying attention, just flying, getting awaygettingawaygett-

He suddenly felt pain bleed across his palms, and a shift in the world.   
Merlin raised his hands to see them with his tunneled vision; there were little stones embedded into them, and blood pooling at the surface. 

His injured leg was unendurable; his knees had been hit as well, and they collapsed strangely, sprawling awkwardly.

There was a torrent of noise but Merlin couldn't see or hear anything against his own loud gasping and the tears smudging his view; he was engulfed by the severity of the stabbing throughout his body, and he closed his eyes, ravaging for an adequate air supply. 

As he leveled out his breathing, he heard Arthur's footfalls, hurried and frantic, speeding towards him. 

Merlin wished he would just pass out from the pain, go into shock, anything. 

But he lived every moment of it.

"Merlin!" 

"No, Arthur, don't come any closer," Merlin commanded in a hoarse and unnerving tone, propping himself up to the best of his ability with his rigid arms. 

Arthur stopped in a sliding halt,  
surrendering with hands in the air, not willing to risk touching Merlin while he was severely injured already. The man appeared almost as terrified as Merlin. Of course. Merlin was volatile. He'd never be treated the same again, never left out of sight, always being guarded and made to continue by both the Triple Goddess and mankind- 

"Merlin, please don't be ridiculous-"

-because Merlin wasn't a man. He was a magical vessel made to live among men. He didn't belong anywhere, with anyone. The only one of his kind. 

His soul was magic, had been created from magic, but made to live with the emotions and brain of a man. He was a creature invented to fill the hole that the Triple Goddess couldn't let her pristine fingers dirty with. 

"Leave me!" Merlin wailed. He just wanted to die. That was all he asked. He was a freak of nature. A puppet. A pawn. 

"No, I won't! Merlin, listen to me!"

Merlin knew he himself must look rabid, and maybe he was. He didn't know anything about who he was anymore. He knew the riddles, the prophesies, the man, the magic, but not how things played out when man and magic intertwined. 

He was blinking furiously at his tears so he could watch Arthur, who stood stock still. That bloody man. 

The hero, the king, the savior. Courage. 

And Magic.

And a man that wouldn't cease the plague upon his kin, who knew the difference between right and wrong, but who didn't give a damn about changing things for the people who were truly suffering in Albion. 

"You," Merlin sobbed, "have no right to control me." 

He was his king, he determined the rules Merlin lived by, he protected the lives of his people, upheld their morals. But no king should own a man's soul. 

It wasn't Arthur's fault, he didn't choose this; but, who else could Merlin blame? 

Arthur looked utterly perplexed. They were in an unpopulated corner of the castle walls, near the fields Merlin intended to flee through when Arthur left him. 

Arthur inched closer, keeping in mind the distance and Merlin's injuries. 

"I'm your king, that's part of the duties... of being king." 

Arthur wasn't acting arrogant or angry, just a bit jocular. It surprised Merlin that Arthur pushed past his pride. But he didn't care about the man's progress of morals now. He wanted no part. 

"Don't you even joke with me," Merlin spat. 

"You're right. I'm so sorry," Arthur mended, "But you have to let me come near you. You need help, and I can't do that if you don't stop acting like this." 

"Bloody hell!" Merlin cried out, hysterical, "The King wants to help his manservant! What a wonder! It's been over five years of suffering, and now he plucks the plank out of his eye!"

Arthur was horrified. 

"Merlin-" 

"Do you know how many times I've came this close? No, you can't. And you'll never know. Because this will die with me. No thing will control me anymore," Merlin plastered through. His chest was heaving, and you could practically feel his anger radiating off of him through the tendrils of his great magic and great suffering. 

"Okay; I have absolutely no idea what you're going through Merlin, but listen to me- no, do it, for once in your damn life- we are going to get you through this. Let me help you, hell, if not me, let Gaius!"

Merlin smiled in mirth. 

"Oh, he's tried, believe me. I've gone to the corners of the earth to find myself help, but I haven't found anything! And when I ask nothing of you or anyone else, you can't extend the courtesy of being there for the other person! You may believe you are a courageous and good man Arthur, but you're not. Let me prove it to you." 

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked, a cold sweat beading on his face. 

"Really, Arthur, I told you to keep up." 

Merlin grasped at a loose cobblestone from behind him. 

"Keep up with what?!" Arthur cried, throwing his hands in the air in defeat of reasoning with his closest friend. 

Merlin choked laughing. This time, it wasn't a cruel laugh. It wasn't out of anger, out of hysteria. It was the same laugh from his dream.

It was out of joy for his freedom.

He gripped the sharp stone with a tremor in his sure hands. 

"Me!" Merlin bellowed, pulling the stone from behind him. The same loose stone his palms had been cut through with when he'd collapsed. 

Merlin didn't watch himself as he punctured and dragged the end of the stone down the length of his arm. 

Instead, he watched Arthur. He savored the exact second of recognition, how Arthur bounded to close the space between them, Merlin screaming aloud a pure dragonlord's call of agony. 

Because, damn, it beat all physical pain he'd endured. 

It was hell.

Merlin looked down at his mauled arm, and it was disgusting, jagged flesh opened to reveal deep layers of yellow fat and muscles and tendons and bone in the deepest of parts, laying parted in a sea of red. 

Merlin didn't have the chance to reminisce or understand, but he saw, and he felt. 

He felt the thousands of nerve endings burning and crying out, having been severed from their other half, the biggest artery bleeding at the rate of a small pipe draining water of a flood, and 

he 

screamed. 

Then he was being shaken, Arthur taking Merlin's face into his hands and yelling at him, but Merlin couldn't hear at him, he could only scream in response, involuntarily, ripping out of him like his own flesh had, and he was sinking down, not into death, no- he was being laid down, and Arthur remained in front of his view the entire time, even as 

Arthur turned and screamed at others for help, Merlin could read his lips, Arthur was sobbing and in utter horror, he couldn't save Merlin and Merlin didn't care because Arthur could live with this, he'd lost good men before, he could lose his friend, a friend that was never recognized anyways, maybe Merlin was supposed to understand without words but he really couldn't, he wouldn't- wouldn't let that stop him even if it were truth, and maybe it was because Merlin wanted to escape but now he wasn't surwasntsure-

Arthur was crying on him, mouthing his name while Merlin could only stare, could only watch, and it was then that Merlin decided:

 

there was no peace in death. 

 

 

 

...

With what power does   
One triumph destiny   
Which overrules efforts  
To cultivate eternity  
Which steals breath  
Of lives foretold  
Who would prosper in future minds  
Of young and old?  
Alas, such power   
Does not lie in men  
But of that above  
For centuries written  
The coming of ages  
And the tales through time   
That leave us strengthless  
Against the planned régime   
But the dead will one day  
Receive new life  
And all will be reunited   
With an ending of strife  
Do not worry, for that  
Day shall soon begin,  
And the savior will  
Come to rise again  
-K.E.L.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's over now. 
> 
> If you're on the edge of a cliff, I'll admit that this follows with the cannon that Merlin will live until Arthur's death and resurrection, plus, if you really were keeping up, you would realize that Kilgharrah didn't show up this time either. 
> 
> This story goes out to all who feel "they have no control of their prisoner's cell." From experience, it does get better, but never easier. 
> 
> But better is what matters. Life will always be hard. But it will be worth it because of the good. 
> 
> Think about your future spouse, and yes, there is someone out there waiting for you to come into their life. Think of your future children, seeing the world through their curious eyes. Think of who you will touch and help in your lifetime, the things you will create, the beauty that you give this earth.
> 
> You contribute to what makes the world better.
> 
> Let others better your world too. 
> 
> Allow help, be honest, because you will be watched and cared for when you can't let yourself be honest. 
> 
> Exist until you can live. Live for the future you. You'll be thankful you did. 
> 
>  
> 
> Now, for the other disclaimer: the poem at the end is my own from three years back, and is named "Parallel." Please do not use any part of this story, quote, or translate, without being given express permission. 
> 
> Yes, English is my first language. I use incorrect sentence structure to add effect and emotion. 
> 
> You don't have to follow the rules when you write your own stories. You're in charge. 
> 
> Make English rules and various languages rules your bitch. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading all of that shit and actually reading through the notes. You should be extra proud of yourself. Have a cookie. 
> 
> I'm not begging, but rather stating, that I absolutely am in love with comments, because feedback is elation for me. So, if you want to call me a bitch or sob into my shoulder virtually, hack it out in the comment section.
> 
> Or, you could say something nice. You get two cookies for that. 
> 
> Stay safe babes, and stay street. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Yes, I called you babe. We're very close now. Kisses.


End file.
